#tav in this case is my tiefling named nethralia whom i love and adore | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

futzingbarton · 9 months

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Even as the Hour Grows Bleaker

“Well, I just…” she stops, sighs, starts again. “Thank you,” she says instead. She is so free and constant with her gratitude, Halsin notes, like someone who once used to fill those spaces with something else—apologies, perhaps, or self-doubt.

She clears her throat. “Now then. I came out here to play some music.” She speaks quickly, hastening her retreat from the topic. “Might I tempt you with a song?”

Halsin cannot keep himself from smiling broadly. “You can tempt me however you like,” he says, and delights in the particular shade of purple that spreads from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.

During a restless night at the Lost Light Inn, Halsin finds himself drawn to an unexpected siren song.

Me? Writing BG3 fanfic? It's more likely than you think.

Exhaustion hangs heavy in Halsin’s bones. He is tired down to his marrow, tired in a way that makes him miss the comforts of a ray of sunlight upon his skin, a warm breeze through his hair. There is none of that here, in this wretched land of darkness and shadow and loss. Nothing else has room to dwell here—not even hope.

Rest eludes him tonight. It evades him like a particularly stubborn mouse hidden beneath a field of grass: visible enough to feel as though it is within reach, just to dart out of his grasp again and again. Were he a hawk, he would be frustrated with such a quarry. As it stands, as an elf, while he may not require a night’s sleep, any opportunity to clear his thoughts and find some peace would be better than this—an endless state of guilt and worry and frustration.

He sighs and sits up from his bedroll, tying his hair up with a piece of cordage. He is grateful he had the forethought to gather a decent supply of bark and fiber from the Grove. Most of the plants here are too decayed and dried to be helpful for anything besides kindling. He emerges from his tent quietly, careful not to disturb the rest of his companions, who are all lost to their respective meditations and slumbers. Perhaps he might find reprieve in wild shape, he thinks, and shifts into a panther. The shadowed lands around him call for an equally shadowed coat.

Satisfied, he stalks silently through the camp. Even so, the tomb guardian meets his eye and nods, though no one else rouses enough to notice him. Despite his preference to be as a bear, he does enjoy his time as a panther. The shadows welcome him, and silence guides him forward.

They are set up around the Last Light Inn, right at the edge of the lake. Neth had insisted on being close enough to be within the light of Selune’s blessing, but didn’t want to take away any beds from those at the inn who might require them. She didn’t expressly forbid any of her companions from resting at the inn instead of in camp, though to some surprise, no one took her up on her offer of hospitality. All were content to stay around their warm central fire, even Astarion; he complained, of course, and bemoaned the lack of a proper bed, but when the time came, he took to his bedroll happily, mumbling something about safety in numbers and the devils you know.

After the attack on the inn, Halsin supposes he cannot blame the group for wanting to stay among themselves. Jaheira is competent and formidable in her own right, as are her Harpers and the attending Flaming Fists, but no soldier can predict the cave-in of a roof, and solutions to sudden death are hard to come by. Better to sleep under the open sky, and perhaps see any sign of an enemy.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. In this form, he can hear the guards on patrol around the inn, whispering worries between themselves as they clank around in their chain armor. The lake laps at its shores, the wind whistles forlornly through the lifeless reeds, and the few leaves remaining upon the trees clatter against each other like dried bones. It all serves as a reminder of his failure for the past century…and as a catalyst to drive him forward in helping Neth. They will remove Ketheric Thorm from this land, the last thorn in Thaniel’s side. They must .

He spots a cozy looking spot upon some boxes near the docks. That will do nicely, he thinks, and curls up to watch the rippling water. Surely that would be enough to lull him into a trance.

A miserable half-hour later, it becomes quite clear that there will be no quieting his mind. He lets out a low growl, frustrated with the disquiet of his thoughts, of his heart. It seems the stresses of the day—or rather, the past few weeks—refuse to leave him be. Though he has never balked at action before, it could be that the battle looming before them is simply too large, with too much at stake. Or maybe his heart just needs time to recover from the centuries of guilt and worry he had held for Thaniel.

He jumps down from his perch upon the crates, stretching his paws far out in front of him, then arching his back. If rest will not find him now, then he will join the guards in their rota until there is no choice but to succumb to his fatigue. He takes a step towards the inn, and in that moment, his ears flick back at the sound of something foreign. Something…musical?

He sits, and swivels his ears to listen. There is only mumbling coming from the inn, and the sounds of the lake, but then—there it is again. A soft twang, then another. The tuning of a lute.

Curious, he turns to go investigate the sound. The lute-player is making an effort to be quiet, but the stillness of the lake and the surrounding forest amplify the lonely echoes, and his panther ears have no difficulty in locating the origin of the sound. The rocky outcropping where Neth had defended him while he went into the Shadowfell to retrieve Thaniel serves as a stage, and there, her legs hanging off the side of the rock, her hair cascading around her shoulders, sits Neth herself.

Halsin takes a moment to regard her, veiled in the dim moonlight and the rising fog of the lake. She looks beautiful always, but she shines resplendent in her element: surrounded by clouds and storms and the breath of the wilds. Here, the fog envelops her like a blanket, and he envies it for being close enough to caress her gentle, cornflower-blue skin, to draw forth goosebumps along her arms, to curl around her horns, to bring a flush to her cheeks. He cannot help but to watch, enraptured, as she brushes her hair to one side, exposing a shoulder that has escaped the confines of her flowing linen shirt.

He intends to exhale, to compose himself, to draw his mind back to the matter at hand and remind himself that, in due time, with the death of Ketheric Thorm and the healing of the land, he might allow himself to focus on matters outside of the Shadow Curse. On matters of the heart.

But he is as a panther, and his harmless exhale instead emerges as a long, low growl.

Nethralia stiffens, hands frozen on the knobs and strings of her lute. Slowly, she turns to peer over her shoulder. Her fiery eyes meet his golden ones, and in them, he can see her fear. She is unarmed, alone, vulnerable . In this moment, she believes she is his prey.

The very thought makes him sick. Panicked, he shakes his head, surely looking comical in his current shape.

Neth doesn’t move, just watches him with wide, scared eyes, so he considers how else he might convince her. It would almost be worse to just change back in this moment, lest she think he was stalking her on purpose , so he does the one thing he can think of as a sure communication that he is not a threat.

He drops to the ground and rolls over, brandishing his belly to the sky. He rolls side to side, his tail swishing in the dirt of the road as he waits for her reaction.

He watches her, upside down, as her brow creases in thought, until, finally—

“...Halsin?”

He springs back up, shakes the dust off of his coat, and pads over to her. When he is close enough that, should she wish it, she might reach out and touch him, he stops. He tilts his head to gesture at the lute in her hands, then looks back up at her.

She holds his gaze, and in her fiery eyes there is a rueful intensity. Pale gray and blue flames flicker in her irises as she takes him in fully, and he wants to think she is as appreciative of a panther’s lithe and powerful form as he is. She takes her time, as though she is counting every whisker to be able to distinguish him in the future.

Then, she lets out a deep breath and smiles , and his heart soars. Acceptance. Such a simple thing, truly, to see someone for who they are and take them in stride without any added judgment—yet he has seen it given out so rarely that he had almost forgotten the thrill of it. Unlike others he has met in his travels, Nethralia has no trouble with accepting people as they are. In fact, she rises above mere acceptance and stands wholly in the realm of embracing all of those she comes across.

Neth shifts over on the rock and pats the space next to her, inviting him to sit. There is not much he would change about his panther form, though in this moment, he wishes he could purr rather than growl. He steps in a circle and curls up beside her, joining her in looking out over the lake.

“I am sorry if I disturbed you,” she says softly, returning to her lute. She has finished her tuning and is idly strumming chords, practicing switching from one to another.

He snorts. As if she could disturb him.

She glances down at his reaction. “Hush,” she chides. “You know what I meant. I would feel terrible if my sleeplessness was the cause of someone else’s.”

Another sniff, and then he shifts so as to lay his head upon his paws. He closes his eyes, happy to share the moment with her and her lute.

He hears her laugh quietly. “Alright, then. Just…let me know if you would prefer I not play, I suppose.”

Why she would expect anyone not to hear her play is beyond reckoning; her mastery over her lute makes a mockery of Volo, and leaves other bards with much to be desired…though he knows some part of his opinion is bias rooted in his adoration of her deft, skilled hands.

She begins to pluck a melody , something slow and sad and sweet. The notes echo over the lake, accompanied by the lapping of waves and the occasional gust of wind rustling through nearby reeds. Two patrolling Harpers pass by as she starts to play, the clanking of their armor stilling as they stop to listen. The tune is almost mournful, nostalgic , a memory woven in a melody, a prayer longing for simpler times. To his surprise, Halsin begins to feel stifled in his wild shape, and longs to show his appreciation for Neth’s art in a way besides being a captive listener.

The song is woefully short. With the last notes resounding across the water, their echoes fading away in the fog, the Harpers resume their patrol—and Halsin takes his cue to stand. Neth glances over at him, brow raised.

She smirks. “Had enough already? And here I thought I’d tuned well.”

He shakes himself and stretches. Stepping back from the edge of the rock, he wills himself to shift back, the golden threads of his magic guiding him back into his elven form. He rolls his shoulders to reacquaint himself before sitting back down beside Neth, who has been watching him attentively throughout his change.

“You misunderstand,” he says. “I wanted to be in a shape capable of expressing that I thought your playing was beautiful.”

“Oh.” She says, a hint of surprise in her voice. “Well, then. Thank you. I appreciate you listening.”

“Of course. It is an honor to be your audience.”

Neth tries to suppress a bashful giggle behind a purposeful clearing of her throat. “Well…thank you,” she says again, resuming her idle strumming.

Halsin hums but says no more, granting her the opportunity with which to compose herself, and, perhaps, her next melody. He is more than happy to enjoy the moment without any conversation, even though he longs to learn more about her. Patience is necessary in nature, when waiting for flowers to bloom or eggs to hatch; so, too, must he be, when pursuing this delicate thread of something that tugs at his heart.

It is Neth who speaks up first, after a short while. “I haven’t had the easiest time sleeping recently. Playing helps to calm me down, even if just for a few short hours. I was delighted to find the Inn had an extra lute lying around.”

Halsin nods, still looking out at the water. “You play well. When did you start?”

“As a child. My mother was a bard, and before we moved to Baldur’s Gate, music was my main source of entertainment. I just watched and listened to her play, at first, and then one day my father came home with an assortment of instruments for me to try my hand at, and the rest is history.” She plucks another song as she speaks, only occasionally glancing down at her hands to see them placed correctly.

“Was?” asks Halsin, noting the past tense.

She hesitates, leaving a chord hanging unfinished in the space between them. She takes a deep breath as though steeling herself, then carries on playing.

“Yes,” she says, sounding small. “She died when I was still young.”

“You have my sympathies,” Halsin says. He sees her face fall, that fire in her eyes dim just a little, and he wishes he could hold her. He settles for placing a hand on her shoulder, pleased to find her leaning into his touch.

“Thank you. It was a long time ago, but I still miss her. I miss…home.”

This close to her, he finds he is insatiable; not just for her touch or affection, but to know her, to know of her, to be as welcomed into her past as he is in her present. He decides to take a chance.

“And where, or perhaps, what , is home, for you?”

Neth hums, a small smile lifting the corner of her lips. “Here.” She answers far quicker than he had expected, and his heart stutters. “I mean, obviously not here ,” she corrects, stumbling to clarify herself, “among all this death and shadow. Just…on the road, with people I care about. I haven’t been settled in a long while, though I do miss some aspects of Baldur’s Gate. Before that, as a child…”

She sighs and sets the lute aside, turning so that she can sit to face him. Crossing her legs, she leans onto her elbows and begins to draw nonsense patterns with her finger on the sand and dirt that lays upon the stone.

“My father was—well, is, I suppose—a ranger. He was your standard lone wolf adventurer without a care in the world until he met my mum. Caught her eye when she was performing in a tavern one day and said he knew, right then, that he’d want to be with her forever. Classic fairytale romance. He didn’t want to live in the city, though, especially not after he stuck around there for a long while when he was courting her. So he built a little cabin out in the woods, maybe three or four days' travel from any city, and that’s where I was born.

“Life was sweet. Simple. Mum played music, dad taught me about nature, I adventured and explored from sunrise to sunset. Sometimes dad would go off on long adventures and come back with books and music and stories that would tide me over during the next spate of time he was gone. Really, the halcyon stuff out of storybooks.”

Halsin can’t look away from her as she tells her tale. Neth is not what he would necessarily call secretive , but she hides her sorrows well, under layers of gratitude and genuine joy. Were one not looking for it, they would not find it, like a tree whose bark and leaves do not betray a trunk hollowed out by insects and rot, leaving it barely standing.

Neth sighs and looks out at the water. “Well. Neither mum nor dad really knew about any latent magical stuff in their bloodline. When I started playing around with magic out of nowhere, they did what research they could and tried to teach me the best they knew. But I was a young sorcerer, and I knew little of caution.”

She stops to rub at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Nethralia, if—” he starts, to let her know she has nothing to prove to him. He has had the luxury of centuries with which to accept his mistakes and regrets. She has had nothing of the sort.

“It’s okay, Halsin,” she interrupts. “It’s…I would like you to know. If you would still like to hear.”

He shifts to sit cross legged as well, and reaches out to take one of her small hands in his. “Of course I would.”

She gives his hand a squeeze. “Thank you.” She cranes her neck to look up at the moon, the pale blue streaks among her mouse-brown hair shining almost white in its light.

“No one got hurt. Well, no one besides me.” She gestures to the scar across her left cheek. “Mum was playing music outside in the sunlight. Dad was out hunting. I tripped over a stack of books trying to get help, and knocked myself on the head before I reached the door. The cabin went up in flames quickly, what with all the books and herbs and sheet music. Mum got me out of there just in time, and dad rushed back when he saw the smoke. All we had left after that were the clothes on our backs, mum’s lute, and dad’s bow. I was ten.

“I remember the walk to Baldur’s Gate being long and quiet. After lots of saving, mum got me my own lute so I could earn myself some coins by playing on the streets. Dad was out hunting and taking what work he could, so I never saw him much. Mum played what taverns and shows she could, too. I had a few magic tutors here and there to make sure we could avoid a repeat, and I practiced magic whenever I wasn’t practicing music.

“That worked out for a while. Eventually we got a small place in the Lower City. Things seemed to be turning around. But then mum died—got caught in a mugging or a fight on her way home late from the tavern. Dad found her the next day. He lasted a few weeks, but one day I got home and he just was…gone. So were his things. Just a note saying he was sorry and enough gold for one more month of rent. I was fifteen.”

She rubs at her eyes with her free hand and sniffs. “Last I heard, he was back in the city. Remarried .” She all but spits out the word. “Haven’t spoken to him since then, though, so I can’t know for sure.” She looks back down at the water, looks everywhere but at him.

Halsin frowns. Surely she cannot think he will judge her poorly for actions in her past, actions that she could not control. Sorrow has made a home with her, hanging heavy on her shoulders like a wet cloak, dousing that fire in her eyes and spirit. It pains him to see her saddened at her memories; it hurts even more to think she may see herself still culpable. For all this, he knows there is little he can do or say to ease her pain. This is her burden to carry, and it is her choice to decide if someone might help lighten her load.

He reaches up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek, and uses the moment to turn her to face him again.

“I am sorry,” he says, for that is sometimes all one can say. “Thank you for speaking to me of it. Perhaps if there are any places that hold fond memories for you within the city, you might show me them?”

Neth smiles sadly. “I certainly do know of a few places, though I can only hope they are still as I left them.” She chuckles under her breath, adding, “Truthfully, I do not think you will enjoy Baldur’s Gate all that much. It’s rather antithesis to your whole…everything. A city exemplifying the ambivalent and uncaring nature of our supposedly civilized world.”

He shrugs. “This may be true. Regardless, I am eager to see the city for what it is, and come to my own conclusions.”

Neth claps her hands over her mouth and swears. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I didn’t want to suggest that you should just take my word for it!” She reaches out and takes both his hands in hers. “Of course I will show you around. I simply don’t want you to think I expect you to care for it in the same way I do.”

Her hands feel so small in his own, so cold. It is a wonder she can play the lute as well as she can in this state. Thankfully, Neth has always been rather open and accepting of physical touch, so he starts to rub slow circles along her palms and fingers in an effort to warm her up. He smiles, his heart feeling full and purposeful, even with this simple action. “I have learned by now that you are very good in not holding those in your company up to unrealistic expectations, Nethralia. You often remind me of the patient warmth of spring, content to let winter run its course. Even with those whose icy demeanors may take more time to melt.”

Neth raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Halsin clears his throat, considering how best to broach the topic. It is something he has been curious about, as a newer addition to her entourage, and observation from the side can only provide so much insight regarding her relationships with others. “At least from where I stand, you seem more than willing to allow those around you to take the time they need to realize themselves. I sometimes find myself envious of your propensity for accepting people as they are.” He leans over slightly, so as to better meet her eye. “The gentle sunlight of your company makes it easy to follow wherever you lead, and easier still to address those parts of us that endeavor to be worthy of you. Take Astarion, for example.”

She chews on her lower lip. “I don’t…what about Astarion?” She glances away, cheeks darkening.

“Even a blind mole could see the impact you have had upon him, Nethralia,” he says with a chuckle. “Could see the way he follows you with his gaze, stands taller when you are near. You say that Baldur’s Gate is full of uncaring people, part of an uncaring society. Are you not part of that society? Are you not Baldurian? Then you are yourself the very instrument by which things care, and you inspire others to follow in your stead.” He gives her hands one last squeeze before he lets go. “Baldur’s Gate must have its silver linings, if it gave us all you .”

He draws his hands back, giving her some space. A distinct blush has settled comfortably among the freckles on her cheeks, but to her credit, she has not looked away. Her gray-fire eyes meet his with conviction, and the smallest hint of a smile dances upon her lips. She works her mouth for a moment, searching for her reply.

She clears her throat. “Now then. I came out here to play some music.” She speaks quickly, hastening her retreat from the topic. “Might I tempt you with a song?”

Halsin cannot keep himself from smiling broadly. “You can tempt me however you like,” he says, and delights in the particular shade of purple that spreads from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.

“Alright,” she squeaks. “Most of the ones I know are rather upbeat and boisterous, but I have one particular one for a night such as this.” She retrieves her lute from her side and repositions herself, one leg crossed over her thigh, the other hanging off the edge of the rock again. She plucks a few strings to find her range, and hums a few lines.

Already, Halsin is transfixed; he slides forward, nearer to her, to sit shoulder-to-shoulder. She is the picture of calm focus, and an easy comfort settles around her, commingling with the swirling fog. She keeps her eyes closed, takes a deep breath, and begins to sing .

“Enter the wild with care, my love,

And speak the things you see.

Let new names take and root and thrive and grow.

And even as you travel far from heather, crag and river…

May you like the little fisher, set the stream alight with glitter,

May you enter now as otter, without falter into water.”

Halsin’s breath catches in his throat. Her voice is a velveteen balm, hushed and warm and soothing. She plucks at the doubled strings of her lute with delicate precision, the notes lingering in the air like they are loath to part from her. And those words, those reverent words—they capture the spirit of nature as though they were spoken by Silvanus himself. Nethralia takes a deep breath and looks up, eyes shining as she is haloed in the silvered moonlight, and continues singing. Halsin would sooner be cast into the Shadowfell again than look away.

“ Look to the sky with care, my love,

And speak the things you see.

Let new names take and root and thrive and grow.

And even as you journey on, past dying stars exploding,

Like the gilded one in flight, leave your little gifts of light.

And in the dead of night my darling…”

She trails off and glances over at Halsin, lips turned up in a tender smile, and he can only respond in kind before she looks back over the lake.

“...find the gleaming eye of starling.

Like the little aviator, sing your heart to all dark matter.”

The lull between verses is filled by the tapping of her heel against the rock, keeping time with her strumming. A breeze stirs the surface of the water, emboldening the lapping waves below, as if she is singing magic into the very lake itself, encouraging it to sing with her. The lute sound is mellow and warm, but he realizes just how much he misses her voice, light and lilting. He is here, and he is seeing her in this moment, rooted in the reality of the moonlight and the waves and the fog, but his heart is alight with the sparks of daydreams: walking hand in hand with her through vale and forest, her voice joining with the dawn choir of birdsong, the hem of her robe catching dewdrops and spiderwebs. He is powerless to stop himself, and knows the moment will pass too soon, so why shouldn’t his heart soar with wild abandon, here in this sacred sliver of time? There is no looming threat of Moonrise, no beckoning mausoleum, no Absolute. Just Halsin, awed and dumbstruck, and Nethralia, serenity incarnate.

“Walk through the world with care, my love,

And sing the things you see.

Let new names take and root and thrive and grow.

And even as you stumble through machair sands eroding,

Let the fern unfurl your grieving, let the heron still your breathing,

Let the selkie swim you deeper, oh my little silver-seeker,

Even as the hour grows bleaker, be the singer and the speaker.”

The tune slows. The tapping of her foot ceases, the water calms. Neth meets his eye again, her own blazing moon-bright and ethereal.

“And in city and in forest, let the larks become your chorus,” she sings. “ And when every hope is gone, let the raven call you home.”

Like a curtain closing over a stage, a new wave of fog rolls in and over them both, diffusing the moonlight and draping them in shadow. It swallows up the last of the echoes from her song, and only when she lets out a deep sigh and puts her lute to the side does he dare speak and break the moment.

“That was magical,” he says, for he has no other words. Well, he does, but they are lost among the rise of feelings in his heart, and he is desperate to practice restraint. If they could go back to that moment, the one that held no promise of war, perhaps he could speak everything he wishes to say, and act in all the ways he wishes he could act. Perhaps he could show her all she does to him, and perhaps she might admit she feels the same.

But this is not that moment, and he breathes his attachment to it out slowly, along with all of his idle dreams and hopes for her. Here, now , is something different, and he doesn’t want to miss a second.

“Thank you,” Neth replies shyly, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. She shifts side to side, and Halsin wonders if she is going to stand up and take her leave, but then—she leans into him, and lays her head against his arm.

“My mother taught it to me,” she elaborates. “It was one of a few lullabies she sang to me every night when I was growing up. It isn’t something I can perform often, so I…I appreciate you listening.”

“Of course,” he responds instantly. “I was—am—honored that you shared such an important piece of your history with me. I will treasure it always.”

He feels her shake with silent laughter against his arm. “You’re very…uninhibited, you know?” she says. Her tone is light, almost humorous, but he senses a hesitation in her words.

He lets out a low chuckle. “I am. I have not found much point in being anything but honest and open. …Why? Would you prefer I not be?”

The space before she replies seems to stretch for hours, and he hopes his heart isn’t pounding loudly enough for her to hear while she considers. Of course he would be happy to occupy whatever space she can offer in her heart, and certainly this isn’t something they can even move further in discussing, or acting upon, with the state of things as they are, but maybe, maybe …after Ketheric is vanquished, and the shadow-curse continues to recede, there may be a moment where this silver seed of hope that has found root within his heart might bloom into something bigger, something promised, something free and wild and shared.

“No,” she decides, and he lets out a breath in relief. In joy . She leans in closer, allowing him to wrap an arm over her shoulders. She fits perfectly against him, even with her horns. “I prefer you just as you are.”

He laughs. How could he have ever considered otherwise? Whatever weight had held him down before, had run through his mind and kept him from rest—it feels lifted, carried away on wings of song. He is lighter, at peace, and as he feels Neth drift away to sleep, her breathing growing slow and steady, he knows that after he carries her back to camp and sets her down upon her bedroll, he, too, will find solace and rest tonight.

#halsin #halsin/tav #astarion/tav #if you squint. it'll be there More since the actual ship is astarion/tav/halsin but yknow. one fic at a time #tav in this case is my tiefling named nethralia whom i love and adore #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fic #nika writes things

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